


The Me Drabbles

by theelusiveflamingo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, Mermaids, Multi, Poison, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Sibling Incest, Uncle/Niece Incest, Valonqar Fic, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2038419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelusiveflamingo/pseuds/theelusiveflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set of drabbles inspired by the ______ Me prompts on Tumblr.  Posted as completed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fight Me; Aerys/Tywin

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сразись со мной](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6502147) by [wakeupinlondon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakeupinlondon/pseuds/wakeupinlondon)



It’s simpler than it seems to pretend the past is nothing but a story.  A children’s story, even, one best left far back, at the gate of the realm of adults.

When the past is leagues away, it hardly exists.  It cannot interfere with the workings of the present.

Until the past sends letters written in a jerky hand, sometimes easy to read, sometimes scarcely legible, sometimes smeared with a substance that could very well be tears.  The letters continue and they are _kind._ They do not seem to bear a grudge.  They beg, they flatter, and they _remind_.

 _Remember what we had, Tywin_ , begins one.  _If you ever had any love for me, not for His Grace Aerys II Targaryen, but for me, for your old friend Aerys_ —one reads, followed by a smudged blur of unreadable words.  One says simply _help me.  Please._

And finally Tywin has had enough.  There’s only so much a man can take, he thinks to himself, if he wants to maintain his composure, his competence, his _sanity._

 _Today we ride for King’s Landing¸_ he thinks, walking amongst the Westerlands forces.  _Soon I strike, and put an end to this old story at last._


	2. Offer Me; Asha/Stannis

Asha wondered if Stannis always slept on his side, back to whoever was in bed with him, or if he just didn’t want to face her after they fucked.  That seemed unlikely, she decided after thinking about it for way longer than she was used to thinking about anything.  He had no problem boring into her eyes with those cold blue ones as he plowed her with the same commitment and meaning he gave  _everything_ he did, far as she knew. 

Qarl would  _never_ turn his back on her after they fucked.  He’d cuddle with her for as long as she could stand it.  But, she supposed, that’s why she was spending more nights with Stannis these days.  Qarl she figured out after five seconds.  Stannis was a mystery.

A mystery she was determined to solve in the best way she knew how.  “What’s up with you?” she asked his back one night.  “Are you ashamed or something?”

“No,” he said.  “I try not to engage in sexual activities that cause me shame.  It’s infantilizing.”

“So why do you roll away from me like you want to pretend we didn’t just…”

The pause that followed made Asha believe silence really could be deafening.

“If you want to do the whole  _cuddling_ thing…”  Asha cringed, trying again.  If Stannis thought being ashamed was infantilizing, he sure as shit wouldn’t like the word  _cuddling_ , either.  “You could put your arm around me.  I’m not going to break.”

“I’m quite aware of that,” Stannis snapped, and pulled the covers up tighter around his chest.  Asha sighed.  At least when he was curled up on his side like that he took up less room in the bed.

But the next night, he surprised her by draping his arm around her waist instead of turning around.

 


	3. Love Me; Bonifer/Rhaella

Viserys and Dany were both in agreement, something which was so rare Rhaella felt she probably had to listen.  They wanted Slurpees from the 7-11, and they wanted them  _now_.

“All right, my dragons,” Rhaella said, pulling their car full of grocery bags into the 7-11 parking lot.  “Go get some cold drinks in your hot bellies so you don’t set the car on fire, okay?”  She shook her head and rubbed her eyes as Viserys miraculously helped Dany out of her carseat.  Sometimes if she wasn’t careful she caught herself sounding just like Aerys.

Inside, with Viserys and Dany discussing the best flavors to mix together, Rhaella made her way over to the refrigerators at the back of the store.   She might as well get a cold drink, too.

Something icy pressed against the back of her neck.  She jumped.

“Holy—”

Bonifer stood behind her with a can of grape soda in his hand, grinning.  “I saw your car, Miss Rhaella, and I thought I’d stop in to say hello.”

“You scared the sh—”  Rhaella always felt bad cursing in front of Bonifer, even though he’d told her many times he found it charming.  “You scared me.”

“I saw you with your little scoundrels,” he said, waving to Viserys, who waved back. He was always polite to Bonifer.  Her Viserys was always so sweet where she was concerned.  “Thought you might need to cool off.”

“With you here there’s no  _chance_  of that, and you  _know_ that.”  She ran her hand up his thigh and squeezed.  A brief flicker ran through his brown eyes, and he kissed her hand as soon as Viserys wasn’t looking.

 


	4. Nurse Me; Elia and Rhaella

“Pycelle says it will pass,” Rhaella says, wringing a cool cloth over Elia’s forehead and wiping the dampness down her cheeks, onto her neck and chest.

“He always says it will pass…the fevers, the weakness, all of it…” Elia sighs from her mound of pillows of sheets.  Even in sickness, her voice has a soft firmness to it that Rhaella admires.  Would that she could be so firm in her own moments of weakness.

“But every time it passes, it comes back again.  And each time, I feel weaker.  I worry…I worry I’ll be too weak to hold Rhaenys, or to bear Rhaegar another child.  I—”

“I’ve heard these fears before, sweet good-daughter, and they’ll do you no good.  I promise.  I _promise_ you will be all right.”  The fever be damned.  Rhaella climbs into Elia’s bed and rubs the cool cloth in circles over her flushed face.  She strokes Elia’s bony hands with her own bony hands.

“You’ll keep living,” Rhaella murmurs.  “You have no other choice but to keep living.  You’d leave too much behind.”

“Mmmm.”  Elia is soothed and slipping into sleep.

“You’ll keep living,” Rhaella says again, anyway, and wonders if it’s really Elia to whom she says it.

 


	5. Mourn Me; Brandon and Lyanna

They called him the “wild wolf.”   _Everyone_ called him that; even Dad was known to say it from time to time.  It had been funny when he was alive.

It wasn’t so funny now that he was dead.

“That Targaryen piece of shit killed our wild wolf.  I’ll kill  _him_ , I’ll kill him  _dead_ , I swear.”  Lyanna could smell the whiskey on Robert’s breath from across the room.  If she could, she’d be drinking right along with him, for just one night of forgetting how those clods of dirt had sounded hitting the lid of her brother’s coffin that afternoon.

“How do you plan on doing that without getting life in prison?” Ned said.  His knuckles were white as he gripped his bottle of beer, but other than that he seemed calm as ever.  Even the level of beer in the bottle had hardly changed over the past hour.  Ned was solid.  Thank the gods for him.

“I’m going into politics.”

“You  _what_?” Ned said.

“He’s up for reelection in the next mayoral election, and I’m going to enter the race against him.  And I’ll roast him, I swear.  I’ll smear shit all over Aerys Targaryen’s name.  My own shit if I have to, you hear me?  I’ll make him  _wish_ he was dead.”

“You’re too young to be elected mayor—” Ned attempted, but the whiskey had lit a fire under Robert now, and Lyanna knew he wouldn’t shut up.

“I’ll win by a landslide once I start stirring up the muck.  And then our Lya can be my First Lady—that’s what they call it for the mayor, right?  With Lya as my First Lady they’ll all vote for me.  Who could say no?”  Suddenly he was storming through the crowded living room and wrapping his arm around Lyanna’s waist.  His whiskey breath was so strong she almost puked on the rug passed down from Grandma Flint.

“Fuck off, Robert,” she hissed through gritted teeth.  “I’m not doing this now.”

“This is how we’re gonna pose for our picture.”  His hand slid down to her ass.

“I said  _fuck off_.”  This time she shoved him harder, managing to break free, and ran through the small group of sad Starks and sad Stark friends and up the stairs to her old bedroom.

 The place she used to sleep when she was a kid.  The place where she and Brandon would hang out until he was tired enough to go back to his own room, until one night they kissed instead of leaving.  The place where they—

Jon was still sleeping peacefully in the crib she and Benjen had put together in a rush.  Lyanna bit her lips and tightened her throat to keep from sobbing.  Just because her life had changed forever didn’t mean her kid had to wake up.

Let him have his peaceful sleep, she thought, burying his face in a sweatshirt of Brandon’s she’d nicked from his room.  I used to have those too.  Plenty of those.

Maybe it was her imagination, but the sweatshirt hardly smelled like Brandon anymore.

 


	6. Zip Me; Daenerys and Jaime

Usually after the 4th of July barbeque Jaime felt full from stuffing his face, so full all he wanted to do was take a nap in his boxers until it was time to head down to the river for the fireworks.

But tonight… _man,_ was tonight different.  Dany had broken up with Daario—or had that asshole broken up with Dany?—for the fifth time that summer, and she kept looking at him from across the table as she ate her corn on the cob.  She ate three corncobs, unlike Cersei’s one (Cersei liked to save room for the bloody steaks Dad always made just for her, himself and Aerys), and each was all lathered up with shining butter and her mouth and lips were so greasy Jaime wondered if someone was going to ask him to insert his credit card to continue sitting at the table.

When Rhaella asked if anyone wanted to help her cut the pies—she’d made six—Jaime got up and stretched.  He hoped Dany was noticing the bulge in his shorts.

“I’m gonna go lie down for a few minutes,” he said, and he was sure Rhaegar was glaring at him and he  _definitely_ caught Cersei’s smirk (but Cers could smirk all she wanted; Jaime knew she had some secrets of her own) but there wasn’t anything in Dany’s purple eyes other than enjoyment as she finished her third piece of corn.

Jaime wasn’t worried, though.  Almost as soon as he’d sprawled out on the big leather couch in Dad’s study, Dany came tiptoeing in with her mouth still greasy and her eyes looking _hungry._

Jaime let out a satisfied grunt as she spread out on top of him.  “What’d you say to them?”

“I just told them I was going to the bathroom.”  She rolled her hips against his as she kissed him.  Jaime could see in the fancy mirror on the wall that she was naked under her sundress.  He was  _almost_ distracted from her kiss by the way her perfect ass was moving in the mirror.  Almost.  “They don’t care, Jaime.  I mean, they have such an unconventional marriage, it’d be so hypocritical if they cared.”

“But it’s hot to pretend they do— _oh._ ”  Dany was now kissing her way down his stomach.  She was clumsily undoing his zipper with her teeth, which made Jaime come in his pants the first time he did it.  Embarrassing, but he was way cooler about it now.  “To pretend they’re gonna get—”

“Stop talking, then, they’ll hear us,” Dany whispered before she wrapped her lips around the head of his cock.

He moaned so loud he was sure everyone could hear it in the other room.

 


	7. Nurse Me; Brynden and Shiera

“Shiera.  It hurts.”

Her voice seemed disembodied, as though she spoke from far outside, leagues away from this room, and her words blew in on the faint breeze.  “Our half-brother has marked you.  It hurts me as well.”

He could no longer see her well from the corner of his eye.  He turned his head, wincing as pain shot through the new cavern in his head, and watched Shiera as she slowly climbed down off the moonlit windowsill.  She wore something silky and sheer, nearly the color of her skin; somehow, the way it skimmed her curves and gathered in her hollows made her seem more exposed than if she wore nothing.  The robe mapped her body, and it was a map even more familiar than the winding dungeons and forgotten towers of the Red Keep.  Shiera did not change.

But he had, now.  He had changed.

“Let me try again, Brynden.”  She joined him on the bed, draping her leg over his, and began to prod at his eye socket with lips and fingers.  He groaned.  It hurt even more than it had when the arrow struck.  “I have something…If I prepare it tonight, it will be ready in two days’ time.  It has been known to make things… _regrow_.”  She began tracing some of his other battle wounds, but those were just scratches and cuts.  He’d been scarred before.

“No,” he was surprised, and  _not_ surprised, to hear himself say.  “No.  Don’t prepare it.  Leave me like this.”

“But  _why_?”  Shiera’s face blurred, and then became clearer as she looked down at his good eye.  “I have something that might fix you.  You could look like me.  Almost like me.”  She laughed.  “Why choose to be changed?”

“Because I am not you,” was all Brynden could think to say through the haze of pain.  “We are not the same.”

 

 


	8. Love Me; Arthur/Elia

What are those words he hears?   _Frail, fragile, delicate.  Weak_.

Are there two Elia Martells?  A secret twin Princess of Dorne, perhaps, hiding in the walls of the Red Keep and being smuggled out only when she needs to see her husband the Prince?

Arthur can think of no reason for this, but the Elia he hears gossip about cannot possibly be the Elia who rides his cock in her chambers so hard she works up a sweat, who sucks him off afterwards to clean him, who laughs ( _sweetly, it’s always sweetly_ ) when she sees they have soiled his Kingsguard whites.

“Th-they call you sickly,” he manages to stutter out once as she mounts him, rubbing the wetness of her slit against his cock, teasing him.  “You don’t seem sickly to me.”

“You’re my old friend, Arthur,” she sighs as she finally guides him inside her and he’s losing his mind, all his Kingsguard dignity, to the warmth, to the way she clenches around him.  “I could never be too tired for my old friend.”

 


	9. Nurse Me; Aerys/Rhaella

How she loved him in that moment, that one strange, fleeting moment of stillness and calm.  _Calm?_   She nearly laughed at herself for the thought; it seemed a cruel jape, and she wondered if she might be going mad, so young, just as so many of her ancestors had.

But it was true, she felt calm, despite the pain in her belly, the sweatiness of the clean shift the peasant woman had put her in, the rumble and clatter of her father and whichever of his men had survived outside, the sour scent of soot and worse, and the wrinkled babe with her brother’s eyes that rested in her arms.

For she hadn’t loved her brother—not after their wedding, not for many years before.  And she knew, even in her light-headedness, that if she made it through this night alive she would come to feel repulsed by his urges, frustrated by his moods, scornful of his beauty that had charmed her best friend so—she would come to feel this all again.

But she loved him in that moment as he held her tight around the shoulders with one hand, as he cried softly into her hair while stroking it in a clumsy way that betrayed how rarely he touched her like that.  She did not fault him for crying; he might have been sixteen and a man grown, old enough to marry her and put a son inside her, but there were still men  _more_ grown than Aerys, and they had cried today, too.

And so she loved him in that moment as he held her and cried, with rips in his shirt so big she could feel them through her shift and the smell of smoke in his hair and hers.  She loved him for being real, not cinders and ash, not a person who’d in one afternoon become a memory.  She loved him for being warm, flesh and bone, alive,  _alive._

 


	10. Amuse Me; Arya/Gendry

“Stupid,” said Arya, staring into his bright blue eyes.  The rocks underneath her were jagged and sharp, and might snag her scales if she wasn’t careful.  “You land people are  _stupid_.”

Gendry grinned and splashed her in the face one more time.  The water felt good in her eyes, which were getting dry from sitting out in the air for so long.  “Why’s that again?”

“Because I’m a  _mermaid._ ”  She scowled at him and he kept grinning.  “The water doesn’t _bother_ me.”  She twitched her tail hard as she could, drenching him with salty water.  So what if Sansa’s scales were a pretty blue and hers were just grey and she was missing a few from sliding on the rocks and playing with the big fish?   _Sansa_ didn’t get to soak Gendry-from-the-land’s shirt so well with water that she could see the outlines of each of his muscles.   _Sansa_ didn’t get to watch as he jumped back, spitting water out of his mouth.

“Hey!” he said, splashing toward her through the salty water.  “What was that for?”

“Stop splashing me.”  She flicked her heavy brown hair behind her back, getting more water on his face (and a strand or two of seaweed for good measure.)  “Cause I’m just gonna splash you back if you do, and I splash better than you.”

“So?  I’ll just get you back.”

“How?”  Gendry had come to sit on the rock next to her, now, and her heart was beating fast, so fast…

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, a long kiss.  His lips were big and full and tasted sweet, like she thought things on land might.

He pulled away for a second and smiled at her.  “You taste like salt.”

“Shut up,” she said, and inched closer to him on the rock so he could put his arms around her.

 


	11. Love Me; Bran/Jojen

There’s a table in the back corner of the school library and that’s where Bran goes every time he has 6th period free.  It’s got plenty of room for his wheelchair and it’s always piled with some of the library’s older books.  No one else he knows ever sits there; maybe it’s because there’s no windows and most of the fluorescent lights have burned out and the ones that still work buzz without stopping.  It’s the kind of buzz they’d have in the horror movies Bran used to stay up late watching with Arya, but Bran thinks the sound is kind of comforting.  It works him into a trance, sometimes.

Jojen always joins him, always late because he gets distracted, but that’s why Bran started realizing how important Jojen is.  Jojen isn’t in a rush.  He doesn’t make whispered comments about how it takes Bran longer to get places.  Jojen’s deliberate.  He takes his time.

And Jojen is important for other reasons, too: for his messy hair and black-framed glasses and the green he wears from head to toe, for the dreams he has that he and Bran both like to pretend are real, to the way he makes Bran feel happier and giddier inside, like he’s about to embark upon the thrilling quest he’s always dreaming about, than anyone else ever has.

It always makes Bran smile when Jojen brushes the back of his hand against Bran’s as they read in silence.  Because Jojen is deliberate, that’s the thing.  And Jojen isn’t in a rush, but he still always gets there.

 


	12. Offer Me; Rhaella and Rhaenys

Rhaella wonders how many princes and princesses have dug their toes into these wet sands, raking through the damp cool with their fingers to dig up shells.  She used to do this, too, on the warmest days, imagining each broken white piece or perfectly formed spiral was a jewel for her crown.  Never mind that she’d never imagined she’d really be Queen, then.  But she’d wanted a crown, and she’d wanted daughters to take beach-combing just as she had.

Now she has Rhaenys.  With Aerys the way he is, Rhaella doubts she will ever have a daughter of her own.  What’s yet another dream washed away? she thinks.  As a replacement daughter, Rhaenys serves well.  Her sweetness is tempered by the beginnings of her mother’s Dornish wit, and she and her kitten take care of Viserys, despite being younger than he is.

“Grandmother?” Rhaenys’s high voice sounds in the wind, cutting through her thoughts in a most welcome fashion.  “I found a strange one, look.”

She’s using the hem of her shift to wipe the wet sand off a shell.  It is a curious shape: almost as wide as her little hand, with a spiral at the top that straightens out and turns into a pointed end.

“I’ve never seen one like that before,” Rhaella says.  This is a matter of seriousness for Rhaenys, just as it would have been for her when she was Rhaenys’s age, and she adjusts the tone of her voice accordingly.  “This is a very special day for you, Rhaenys.  What will you do with it?”

“Hmmm…It looks like a dragon’s tooth.  It’s pointy.  See?”

“I see,” Rhaella says, and holds out her hand so Rhaenys may prick her with it.

“But it’s also like a spear.  Those are pointy, too.”

“You are right,” Rhaella says.  “It’s like both.”

“Like me,” Rhaenys cries, her smile wide.  She holds the shell up to the sunlight.  “A dragon and a spear, like me!”  She thrusts the shell into Rhaella’s paln.  “It’s for you.”

Rhaella wraps her arms around the little girl.  “I’ll think of you whenever I see it,” she says, and she thinks it’s all right she doesn’t have a daughter of her own; sweet Rhaenys is more than good enough.


	13. Drink Me; Arianne/Oberyn

They might have a sun for a sigil, the both of them, but they work best when the hour is late and the world is quiet but for the endless trickle of the fountains in the gardens below.

A cool breeze blows off the fountains and through the one cracked window, setting the curtain aflutter.  It’s the sort of breeze they hardly get in dusty Sunspear, and Arianne stretches in her chair, letting the wind blow through her heavy curls and cool off her sweaty neck.  Uncle Oberyn always leaves the window open while they work, so they don’t breathe in too much smoke, yet with him so nearby she always gets to sweating.  She can’t help it, and sometimes as he watches her frown over a failing jar of tears of Lys, she catches him wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

“Are you finished?”  Uncle Oberyn says, leaning back in his chair.  Arianne is supposed to be focusing on her work, but it’s getting to be that time of night, the time that’s better for watching the bulge and strain of muscles than for hunching over vials of poisons.

“I have been wondering that myself, Uncle Oberyn.  Would you like to taste it and see?”  She dips a ladle into the purple broth-like substance in the pot and smiles sweetly at him.  “I don’t yet know all that you know about these things.”

“Feed me that and you might never know, sweet niece,” he says, grinning.  He swings his legs underneath the table and leans forward on his elbows, looking her up and down.  “I think that would be a pity.  I was going to invite you out to take a dip in the fountains with me.”  Arianne watches as his fingers toy with the laces of his tunic, slowly, reaching out like a serpent’s tongue.  “There’ll be no eyes upon us.”

“Oh, we can do that later,” Arianne sighs, her frustration turning into something hot and heavy and not unpleasant as it rushes through her body and comes to rest between her legs.  “I want to know, Uncle, have I made this poison right, or did I let it boil too long?”

Uncle Oberyn waits, untying the knots slowly, slowly…He is only this slow with her.  The Uncle Oberyn she sees at night is for her  _only_.

Arianne huffs and walks over to him with her full ladle, taking care not to spill its contents on the newly-varnished table.  “You’re the laziest viper  _I’ve_ ever seen.  Here.”  She holds it up to his nose.  “How’d I do, Uncle?”

He gives it a sniff, and crooks a finger, inviting her to join him.  “You did well here, Arianne.  Had I someone I’d like to kill nearby, we could use this tonight.”

“Who is your nearest enemy?” Arianne says.  “Take me to meet him.  I’ll bring a jar of this along.  I can help you.”

Uncle Oberyn’s laugh is bitter, but his deep brown eyes are heavy and half-lidded as he looks at her, and she knows he is distracted from his bitterness.  By her.  “Tywin Lannister deserves this fate many times over…but we cannot ride to King’s Landing tonight.”

“And why not?” Arianne asks him.  “I’m tired of the Water Gardens, anyway.  Let me go with you.”

“Because there’s something more urgent than Tywin Lannister tonight.” 

He takes the ladle from her hand and kisses her.

This is not the first time they’ve kissed.  But it is their first time kissing over a ladleful of poison, and their lips move together fast and frantic and her head falls slightly to the side of its own accord so her uncle can better slip his tongue into her mouth.

“My Arianne,” he breathes as she takes his lower lip between her teeth.  “Do you still want me to drink your poison?  For I was planning on drinking you, instead.”

Her breath catches and she moans against his lips.

“That’s my girl,” he says, and he tosses aside the ladle—she thinks she hears a hissing sound as the poison meets the Myrish carpet behind them—and hoists her up onto the table with one arm, caressing her waist as he does.  “That’s my girl,” he says as she pulls her skirt up around her hips for him, and “That’s my girl,” once more as he hooks her legs over his shoulders and breathes his first, tingling-hot breath upon her aching cunt.


	14. Value Me; Brienne/Jaime

(this turned out to be a sadfic, anon!)

“It’s over?” he said.  “This is it?”

Jaime’s bare back was bent in what looked like defeat, but Brienne knew defeat wasn’t a thing Jaime just lay down and took.  She could see all those well-defined back muscles trembling.  He was preparing to put up a fight.  She’d miss that about him.

It was weird to Brienne that she’d spent so much time wanting to crawl right out of her skin, maybe exchange it for a new one, even when she was supposed to be feeling  _sexy_ and  _wanted_ she somehow—Yet here they were, having this talk half-dressed.  She sat down next to Jaime on the edge of the bed.

“I—I think so,” she said.  “This is over.”

“I don’t understand you,” Jaime snapped.  “I thought we were doing better.  You’ve been making me feel so _good_  about everything, and I thought I was making you feel good, too.”

  Jaime’s green eyes were twisted up in confusion, but there was also anger underneath.  That righteous Jaime Lannister anger.  He really had no idea.

“I know you’re trying, Jaime,” Brienne said.  She scooped her shirt off the floor and pulled it over her head.  She really didn’t want to have this conversation without clothes on.  She should have waited. But she couldn’t put up with the look in Jaime’s eyes when they had sex.  There was something vacant about him.  Maybe  _vacant_  was too harsh, but…he was there…and yet he also wasn’t.

“I  _am_ trying,” Jaime said.  “Come on, Brienne.  You changed my life.  You made me see so many things differently.  Don’t you see that’s a big deal for me?  And now you tell me it’s over out of nowhere?”

“It’s not...exactly out of nowhere.”  Brienne tugged her shorts on and stood up, making sure to draw herself up to her full height.  No more slumping, especially not now.

“What do you mean?”

“I love you, Jaime,” Brienne sighed.  “I really do.  But when we’re together I feel…like there’s something else on your mind.  Some _one_ else on your mind, I guess.”

Jaime’s shoulders drooped a fraction.

“What do you mean?” he asked again.  His voice was less angry now, but his eyes were wider.

“I just feel it,” Brienne said.  “And I…I want to be  _yours_ , Jaime.  That’s how I’ve always wanted it.  And if you can’t get her off your mind, then…maybe you should just go spend time with her.  I’m sorry, Jaime, but I just…”

It didn’t feel like a relief.  It didn’t feel like a triumph.

Brienne waited for Jaime to retaliate.   _You can’t expect me to only spend time with you.  My family is important too_.

But he didn’t.  Because that wasn’t what Brienne had meant, and they both knew it.


	15. Wed Me; Joanna/Rhaella, Lady Martell

(sorry this got a bit...dirtier than intended ;))

There’s a game they like to play when they’re in their cups, though they have to be far gone enough for their faces to flush and their steps to waver and their words to end in giggles.  Rhaella hadn’t ever thought it was proper for a girl to get herself into such a drunken state, but Joanna did as she liked, and she gave Rhaella courage.

“Where is my bride?” Joanna crows in the dim candlelight of Rhaella's bedchamber.  “Where is she?”

Joanna's tucked her shift into a stolen pair of Aerys’s breeches.  They’re unlaced as much as they can be and still barely fit over her hips.  Joanna has that fertile Lannister look, Rhaella thinks; her hips curve too beautifully to fit into her skinny brother’s breeches, but they work well for the game, and the sight of Joanna in them makes Rhaella’s heart tremble and the place between her legs heat up.  She doesn’t even know why, but oh, how she loves the sight.

“Come out, my sweetling,” Joanna giggles.  “I’ve been wed, and now I’m ready to bed!”

Rhaella steps out from the shadows that pool around the draperies of her bed, cups of Dornish wine making her unsteady on her feet.  She’s naked, every inch of her pale skin on display for Joanna, but for a white sheet that they’d drawn a crude golden lion on, once. 

 _My husband’s cloak,_  she thinks giddily, smiling at Joanna.   _No more dragons.  I’m a lion now._

“Here, my lord,” she sings, spinning in a circle.  The room spins, too, and keeps spinning even once she’s stopped.  “I’m yours, how do I look?”

“You’re beautiful, my bride,” Joanna says.  “And I’m going to fuck you til the sun comes up!”

She says this every time and it always makes Rhaella blush and then step forward to kiss her companion, her best friend.  Their kisses are not as clumsy as they once were.  Joanna’s breath tastes sweet and heavy.  Rhaella slips her hand between Joanna’s legs, half expecting to feel a cock there.

“My bold bride!” Joanna says, pulling her mouth from Rhaella’s lips.  “Onto the bed with you!”

She shoves the princess onto her bed and then they’re back to kissing again, kissing so hard Joanna moans into Rhaella’s mouth, as she nudges Rhaella’s legs apart with her knee and slides two fingers into her.  Then it’s Rhaella’s turn to moan.  The spinning room around her makes her somehow feel everything even  _more_ than usual.  She rolls her hips under Joanna’s hand as Joanna  _fucks_ her with her fingers, wanting it harder, wanting more and more.

“You want this, don’t you?” Joanna pants in her ear.  “You’ve been dreaming of becoming mine, my sweet bride, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Rhaella gasps, as she always does, “y-yes, please, my lord, you’re all I want…”

But tonight something different happens.  The door to Rhaella’s chamber opens, and in walks Lady Martell.  Joanna and Rhaella both sit up, Joanna’s fingers still buried inside Rhaella.

They play many games with the beautiful Dornish princess too, of course, but not this game of husbands and brides, and Rhaella fears what the Lady Martell might say.  She’s different than Joanna: even more grown-up maybe, more outspoken.  If she found the game childish she’d not be afraid to say so.

“Your faces give away how much wine you’ve had,” she laughs, closing the door behind her.  “If the both of you could see how red your cheeks are…”

She takes Rhaella’s lion cloak between her fingers and laughs softly.  “I’ve never seen you two play this game before,” she says.  “What is it?”

“We’ve gotten married,” Joanna explains, brushing some of her sweaty golden hair off of her forehead.  “I’m bedding my wife.  Well, I was bedding my wife.  Then you interrupted.”

The Lady Martell laughs and kisses them both on the cheek.  “Is your new wife everything you’ve wished for?”

“Oh, yes.” 

And Rhaella beams as she hears that, even though it’s just a game, it isn’t  _real._

Their friend climbs onto the bed and leans back on the pillows next to Rhaella.  “Get on with it, then,” she says.  “I want to watch you bed your wife.”


	16. Haunt Me; Cersei/Jaime

He flexes his hand.

He flexes his hand and looks upward, watching the fading daylight play through the windows.  He sees dust almost glittering in the light, dust floating all around him.

It’s a sight he saw often as a child, here in this same room at the Rock.  Then, he would watch as the sunlight came through the windows and settled on Cersei’s hair.  Her hair was so golden it would catch all the light in the room.  It glowed almost like it was aflame.

If he put his head against hers, their foreheads and noses and maybe even lips touching, his hair would glow too, just like Cersei’s.

Now he follows the trail of light down, down to where it catches in Cersei’s short, boyish tangle of curls.

It catches something else too.  There’s another golden thing in the scene, one that isn’t in his childhood memories.  The sunlight makes his golden hand shine brighter than Cersei’s hair.  He stares at the hand as it rests against her neck.  He laughs a short, brief laugh.  It looks as though he is holding her as she falls asleep.

He flexes the hand he has left once more and holds it to his face.  It smells of his sister’s skin.

He brushes his hand over her eyelids to hide her lifeless stare.  He clumsily pulls her curls forward to hide her face.

She will be golden in death as she was in life, now, golden and terrible, just like the hard hand he pressed against her neck, the unfeeling gold hand that held her as she struggled.


	17. Drink Me; Domeric/Ramsay

Ramsay didn’t have any Cs on his report card this semester and Dad actually kept his promise. He let Ramsay set up a weight room in the basement, next to _the locked room_.  It was nothing fancy, but it was kind of like how Domeric had a music room, right?  It was a place just for him.

No one ever bothered him down there so he didn’t even notice the knock at the door at first.  He liked to put Skinny Puppy on while he ran on the treadmill and Skinny Puppy just sounded like a whole series of knocks at the door so it took until the seconds of silence between songs for him to hear the polite _thump thump thump_ over the louder pounding of his big feet.

“What do you want?” he barked out.  It had to have been Domeric.  Dad would have been inside the room already.  It was _his_ house, he always said, so he had every right to know what was going on in any room at any time whether a door was closed or not.

Domeric cracked the door open.  He wore a new-looking lavender button-down and his hair was damp.  Ramsay could smell his freshly-showered scent over the smell of his own sweat.

“I’ve never been in here before.  It looks great!”  Domeric was too polite to ask Ramsay to lower the music, so he yelled over it instead.  _Typical._   Ramsay snorted as he watched Domeric’s glance at the skull Ramsay had put on a shelf—the only decoration in the room.

“Thanks, Martha Stewart,” he said, his eyes playing over Domeric’s high cheekbones and slightly red cheeks.  That dead Bethany lady who hadn’t wanted him around sure had some good genes.  “I’m glad you like my _décor_.  But I’m busy.”

“Why don’t you take a break, Rams?” Domeric said.  He held out a bottle of Gatorade.  It was the red flavor.  Ramsay loved the red flavor.  “You look pretty sweaty.”

“No shit, that’s what happens when people exercise.”

“You don’t have to be a dick.  I’m just trying to be nice.”

Ramsay hit Pause on the CD player.  “Did Dad send you down here?”

“No.”  Ramsay decided to ignore that cold feeling he suddenly had in his stomach.   “I came down because I care about my little brother.  I don’t want you to get dehydrated or something.  Come on.”

Ramsay hopped off the treadmill, leaving it running, and walked on shaky legs to Domeric.  The Gatorade bottle was cool even though it had been in Domeric’s hand.  It felt good on his tongue, in his mouth, going down.

“You want some too, big brother?” Ramsay asked.

Domeric nodded.

Ramsay took another sip and pressed his lips to Domeric’s.  He let the cool liquid spill into his brother’s mouth.  Domeric’s tongue felt cool against his, cool and sweet like fake red flavor.  When Ramsay pulled away, there was a slight red ring around Domeric’s lips. 

“What does a good brother say?” Ramsay said softly.

“Thank you.”

Ramsay took a third sip and took Domeric’s damp, clean neck in his hand, bringing them back together.


	18. Love Me; Rhaenys/Viserys

“Ugh, I’m too full to move,” Rhaenys complained, stretching out on their soft blanket.  It wasn’t the most comfortable resting place--twigs underneath the blanket poked at her back--but she was full of fancy sandwiches and desserts from Eataly and three cups of pink lemonade and between all that and Viserys lying next to her she probably could have fallen asleep right there in the park.

“Are you?” Viserys mumbled.  He cupped her cheek in his hand and drew her mouth to his.  Kissing Viserys was good and it was bad.  It was good because….well, it was _kissing Viserys_ , with his hot mouth and heavy panting and fingers that would grab at her more possessively each time their lips met.  But it was bad because once they started kissing, she couldn’t conceive of stopping.  Suddenly there would be nothing she wanted to do more than let her uncle kiss her out there in McCarren Park, and then kiss him right back.

“I had two sandwiches,” Rhaenys mumbled back once her mouth had a free moment.  She wanted to sling her leg across Viserys’s hips, but they were surrounded by old ladies, yuppie parents, and a judgmental hipster with a Rolleiflex.  Keeping it PG was probably the way to go.  “Those sandwiches were huge.  I’ll never move again.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work out for you, sweet niece.”

“Why not?”

“Because…”  Viserys suddenly sprang up and into a sitting position.  “You’re about to be…TICKLED!”

And he attacked Rhaenys’s stomach as she squealed and swatted at him with her hands.

“Stop!” she said, laughter already overtaking her.  “What’s _wrong_ with you—stop!”

“So many things,” he said, grinning as his hands slipped up into her armpits.  “ _So…many…things…_ ”

“Stop—I can’t breathe, stop!”  Rhaenys pulled his ponytail.  “That hipster is probably taking pictures!”

By the time he stopped they were both panting and Rhaenys felt his cock pressing into her side.  It would take them almost forever to get back to Viserys’s place in Midtown, and right now all she wanted was to get onto her hands and knees as Viserys pressed his cock into her slow, teasingly, whispering encouragement as she squirmed.

“Are you as turned on as I am right now?” Viserys whispered.

“Do you even have to ask?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Viserys said, hauling Rhaenys to her feet. 


	19. Haunt Me; Aerys/Tywin

They had tried to teach him so much in the hospital.  And he had learned.  A little.  The drugs they gave him helped him learn, though whatever was in them muted the volume of everything around him, and it was hard to hear.  It was hard to hear  _everything_.

But there was one thing that was still  _his_.  Tywin’s face was still his.  His beautiful, strong body still belonged to Aerys Targaryen.  Aerys saw Tywin in the pattern on the drop ceiling above his bed, in the cracks in the bathroom tiles, in the painful blurs of bright in front of his eyes for that split second when they first turned out the lights at night.

Tywin, Tywin, Tywin.  Tywin would come for him, when it was time.  Tywin would take him home.  No—Tywin would take him away.  Tywin was not there for Aerys when Aerys had needed him most.  But Tywin would have learned his lesson.  Tywin would have learned who to truly appreciate.  And then Tywin would come.

When Aerys gets to go home, Rhaella comes for him.  She brings Viserys, but Aerys doesn’t have much to say to his second son.  He’s not going to ask forgiveness—he’s not a  _bad_ father.  He did the best he could.  And he’s not going to say he’s happy to see Viserys, because someone’s missing.

“Where’s Tywin?” 

Rhaella doesn’t take him by the hand or bring him flowers.  She walks one step ahead of him through the white hallways, the car keys jingling from her fingers.  She looks good, as good as Rhaella can look.  She’s lost weight.  Her clothes are different. 

“Where’s Tywin?”

“I don’t know,” Rhaella says.  “Where is he supposed to be?”

The parking lot is bright and sunny and mostly empty.  Tywin is not there.

“Tywin’s supposed to come.  Why didn’t he come?  Is he late?”

Viserys is biting his lip and texting someone, trying not to look at his parents.  There’s no Tywin.  No Tywin.  Rhaella’s looking him straight in the eye now.

“I don’t know where you got that idea from,” she says, “but I don’t think Tywin…wants to speak to you.   I’m sorry, Aerys.  I—”

But Aerys loves Tywin.  Tywin should be here.  He knows he’s supposed to understand  _why_ this is happening, but he doesn’t.  He can’t.


	20. Enamor Me; Bonifer/Rhaella

Rhaella is rarely clumsy.  Aerys didn’t want a clumsy wife hanging onto his arm for dear life at galas, after all.  She practiced her posture and poise and balance til she could stand straight and still through any storm.

And now, here she is in her quiet kitchen with the afternoon sun lighting up the kitchen in that polite way windows with a western exposure have, and something something _something_ funny that makes her whole body tingle causes her to slip and drop the glass of lemonade she’s holding.  It spills all over sweet Mr. Hasty’s Bible, all over those holy words he loves so much.  Even the sprig of mint she’d put in the glass to make it look nice wedges itself right in there between the two pages.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so, so—What can I do?  Can I get you a towel?  Let me get you some towels.  Is it going to be--?”  Now Mr. Hasty will stop his visits and her life will go back to the awful boring vague fear it was every day before he first showed up at the Targaryen doorstep.

She hears a ripping noise as she’s on her way to grab the paper towels from the kitchen counter, and spins back around to see Mr. Hasty ripping a soiled page right out of his Bible.

“Mr. Hasty?”

“The page is ruined anyway,” he says, smiling his broad smile, “so I figured I might turn something spoiled into something sweet.”  His big hands are crumpling the paper and folding, crumpling and folding.  “You could say it’s like turning water into wine.”

When he presents Rhaella with the crudely-made flower, she feels weak in the knees.  Dany makes better artwork than this in her kindergarten class, but somehow, _somehow_ …

She kisses Mr. Hasty on the cheek.  He smells so clean and sweet and _pure,_ and all this just makes her feel very much the opposite.

“Thank you, Mr. Hasty,” she whispers.

“Bonifer,” he says, and his smile’s even bigger now.  “Please, call me Bonifer.”


	21. Quiet Me; Davos/Stannis

The motel room is bleak, the wind whipping past the window so fast Stannis can hear it rattling trash in the parking lot is bleak, the beach in February is bleak,  _bleak_ , the whole business is—Stannis can’t get comfortable with what he can’t imagine, and right now he can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a son.  A  _son_ ¸ a hero of a son, who never thought to be a hippie, smoke dope, dodge the draft.  Stannis has been a son who has lost, of course, but this particular feeling is a feeling he’ll never know.

It’s been two years, give or take, since Hue, and only now has Davos been able to think of parting with that canister full of his son.  It’s why Stannis is willingly letting this cold seep under his skin and into his bones.  No one likes the beach in February, but it’s the two-year anniversary, and it was Dale’s favorite beach, and part of Stannis wonders if Davos has chosen  _here_ and  _now_ to let Dale’s ashes know he’s really home now.  Stannis doesn’t imagine it ever gets this cold in Vietnam.

It’s just them in the motel—Stannis in one room, Davos, Marya and their remaining sons in two others, and two of Dale’s best friends splitting a fourth room down at the end.  So when there’s a momentary lull in the wind and Stannis hears footsteps outside, he knows it’s got to be one of them—who else would come to this godforsaken place in this godforsaken month?

He knows exactly who the footsteps belong to, too.  He’d know them anywhere, anytime.  He pulls on his sweater, slides on his shoes, and opens the door.

Davos is leaning against the railing of the outdoor walkway, smelling just enough like whiskey to pique Stannis’s interest.  Stannis doesn’t drink, other than a beer or two on occasion, but this is something he likes about his best friend.   He is who he is, unselfconsciously.  His emotions are neither completely unfiltered nor completely inappropriate.  Stannis wonders how he does it, how he lets his feelings be known without seeming unbalanced.

Davos turns to Stannis and his lips quaver only slightly before he swallows the quaver.  Stannis steps closer.

“This is the last night I’ll have Dale with me,” Davos says, his voice hoarse.  “I’m not planning on sleeping.  I want to stay with him.”

“Then I won’t sleep, either,” Stannis says, realizing he hardly feels the cold.

“But—”

Stannis takes ahold of Davos’s worn navy blue scarf and pulls them together.  Their lips meet.  Their kiss crushes.  It crushes lips and teeth and tongue together.  It is not a beautiful kiss, but it is not a beautiful night.

 


	22. Love Me; Cersei/Jaime

She'd survived her first semester of college and her bed with its clean white sheets back home at Casterly Rock felt like the most comfortable thing in the world.  She was warmer and happier than she usually was thanks to the rum from in Uncle Gerion’s egg nog.  And Jaime was down between her legs, nuzzling at her underwear with his soft-feeling lips. 

He was taller.  His muscles felt different under her hands, tonight, harder and stronger.  She wondered what she felt like to Jaime, under his big hands.  Did she feel different too? She must have.  What happened to Jaime had to happen to Cersei, and vice versa.

She felt Jaime lift his head up, the only feeling on her cunt the slight pressure of his hot breath.  She moaned softer than a lioness ought to moan.  She rolled her hips underneath his face.  She pulled on the golden curls he’d trimmed.  (She hadn’t cut her own hair.)

“More,” she said, finally.  “Jaime.  _More._ ”

He ghosted the pad of his thumb over her clit.

“ _Jaime_.”

“I’m gonna try something new I heard about,” he said, and the pure _excitement_ in his voice made Cersei almost come on the spot.   “I’m not gonna let you come till I think you’re ready…You have to ask me for it.”

Cersei wondered what the fuck he’d been _reading._  But then he was running his fingers up and down the sides of her slit, and she was biting into her new down pillow so Father didn’t wake up from one of his light sleeps and come running.

Blame it on the rum, blame it on whatever—Cersei didn’t care.  She opened her mouth to beg her twin, to _beg,_ but instead, she was telling him she loved him.


End file.
